


By Your Hand

by warsawsubwayclub



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Enemies to Lovers, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2018-11-03 08:48:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10963791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/warsawsubwayclub/pseuds/warsawsubwayclub
Summary: Ronan is pretty sure his brain has just fucking stopped turning over. He can’t think of a thing to say, just a faraway sort of offense at Parrish’s knee-jerk negative reaction to the idea of pretending to be in love with him.Because that’s what this is: going undercover to Colin and Piper Greenmantle’s charity auction. As a couple. A married couple.Helen already has their ring sizes, apparently.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A spy AU where Ronan and Adam go undercover as husbands because I’m self-indulgent and predictable. This is my first time writing fanfiction, please don’t think too hard about any one detail of this or the plot will probably fall apart. I have no idea what I’m doing. The tags/rating may change depending on where this ends up going but there probably won't be anything worrying. Thank you so much to Keelin for being my long-suffering friend and beta for this!!! Anyways, please enjoy!

 

“Absolutely not.”

Parrish is the first to speak, and Ronan’s glad for it, because otherwise he thinks he’d just be sitting here in shock for another ten minutes. As it is, he whips his head over to EXCELSIOR’s best and brightest and then back to Helen Gansey, who looks unperturbed by Parrish’s reaction.

“I know it’s not an ideal situation. Dick and Cheng were originally supposed to fill the roles,” Ronan flinches on Gansey’s behalf at the nickname, “but their assignment with Sargent was prolonged, so you two were the next logical option.”

Ronan is pretty sure his brain has just fucking stopped turning over. He can’t think of a thing to say, just a faraway sort of offense at Parrish’s knee-jerk negative reaction to the idea of pretending to be in love with him.

Because that’s what this is: going undercover to Colin and Piper Greenmantle’s charity auction. As a couple. A married couple.

Helen already has their ring sizes, apparently.

“Lynch doesn’t do undercover work.”

Once again, Parrish is speaking Ronan’s mind, and Ronan blinks at him. He knows Parrish has to be aware of his existence; they both orbit planet Gansey and work at the same God damn spy agency. But beyond that there’s never been anything but cool disdain held at a somewhat professional distance (in Parrish’s case, at least; Ronan has never been quite so good at keeping his cards close to his chest in regards to Gansey’s most attractive and stuck-up friend) and an uneasy truce between them for the sake of their mutual friends.

And what he’s saying is strictly true; Ronan is generally more involved in the side of their work that involves driving cars fast and shooting at things. The more delicate parts of the job are for people like Gansey, who can weave such lovely words that it’s impossible not to like him, or Parrish, who has a mind to rival Helen’s and is currently sitting next to him looking like he’s eaten a lemon but generally cleans up to look like a teen romance novel love interest.

Helen folds her hands like she was expecting this protest as well, still unruffled. “We were hoping he could make an exception this once. He’s proven himself perfectly capable in every assignment so far, and whatever difficulties he may come across we feel confident that your expertise will fill in the gaps.” Ronan narrows his eyes. He’s known the Ganseys for too long to be fooled by this. Parrish stays silent beside him, so he can only assume he’s of the same mind: there’s something she’s not saying. Her smile remains for one second, two, before she finally sighs. “And the only other agent we have available on only two days notice is Carruthers.”

_“No!”_

Ronan looks over in surprise to see that Parrish and he both interjected at the same time. This is the only point the two of them can seem to agree on: that Tad Fucking Carruthers is the worst. If they weren’t in a meeting with their boss about potentially having to pretend to fucking date one another Ronan might have cracked a grin at Carruther's expense. As it is, he just watches as Parrish turns back to Helen.

“I just talked to Cialina this morning, she said she wasn’t on assignment for another two weeks,” Parrish says slowly.

Helen must be getting tired of this back and forth. All of them know that Helen Gansey doesn’t do anything without carefully considering every option and there must be a good reason for all of this, but Parrish seems to need all the information laid out for him so he can process it himself.

“We’ve already RSVP’ed to Greenmantle with a Mr. and Mr. Goch,” Helen says, visibly restraining herself from rolling her eyes, so Ronan does it for her. Leave it to Gansey to make a dead Welsh king reference for his God damn gay romance undercover mission.

Except now it’s Ronan’s God damn gay romance undercover mission.

“Look,” Helen says diplomatically, her patience seeming to be wearing thin, “can you two do this or not? I’m sure Carruthers would be more than happy to pretend to be your husband, Parrish…”

“Lynch doesn’t work with partners.”

Ronan snorts, sick of having words stuck into his mouth by this guy. “You can quit making excuses for me and just come out and say that you don’t want to fucking do it.”

Parrish looks unruffled by Ronan’s aggressiveness. “That’s not my issue. It’s common knowledge that you’ve refused to work with a partner since Kavinsky—”

Ronan sees red, like he does whenever someone brings up K — dickhead, double agent, dead — and snarls, “That’s none of your fucking business, I don’t need a God damn Abercrombie model telling me what I—”

“Boys!” Helen interrupts, slapping her hand on the table between them and successfully shutting the two of them up. She settles back into her finely polished persona instantly, but it’s easy to tell she’s sick of their shit by now. “Look. It’s either Lynch or Carruthers. Are the two of you up to it or should I call Tad in?”

Instantly, Ronan is imagining Carruthers’ stupid fucking face lighting up, how the office would never hear the end of him regaling them with exaggerated tales of his exploits with Parrish, the idea of him and Parrish holding hands. He knows she’s playing them both like the beautifully tuned concert grand that sits in the Ganseys’ parlor room back in DC, but the thought is nearly unbearable.

“I’m in,” Parrish says, his lips a thin, straight line. Clearly, he’s not pleased with the arrangement, and he’s looking at Ronan with narrowed eyes like he’s expecting a trick and that pisses off Ronan even more.

“You don’t have to fucking look at me like that, Jesus. I’m in,” Ronan scowls.

Helen’s shoulders lower the slightest bit, which Ronan knows is her version of being deeply relieved, but she’s still eyeing the two of them with a measure of suspicion as they openly glower at one another. “Look, are you two positive you’re alright with this? I know you’re both professionals, but clearly there’s some reason the two of you don’t get along. You’re going to have to pretend to be married for a full seventy-two hours. We can’t risk being exposed. Is it going to be a problem?”

Trust Helen to convince them to do this and then immediately question it. There’s probably some reverse psychology shit happening here, but Ronan’s mind can’t track that kind of thing; all he can muster up is a strangely competitive sense of being offended by the implication that he can’t handle pretending to be Adam Fucking Parrish’s husband for a day or two. “It won’t be a problem,” he replies. He says it defiantly, even though he knows it’s what she’s wanted this whole time.

“Prove it,” she answers.

Ronan levels her with a blistering look. She stares back coolly.

She’s not joking.

He looks at Parrish, who has no expression on his face at all. They all just fucking sit there like that for a second.

Helen finally gives into what must have been an hour-long desire to roll her eyes. “I’m not looking for a show,” she tells them, her voice chilly, and Ronan can feel his cheeks starting to heat up inexplicably at the very implication. “I need to know you two can actually pretend to be able to stand each other for five minutes at a time. Like I said, you are both top performers, but you really aren’t making a solid case for yourselves as believable husbands right now.”

And Ronan supposes that’s fair. It makes sense, the way Gansey things always make sense, which is to say in a way that pisses him off. But he’s distracted from whatever he was about to say or do by the scraping of Parrish’s chair next to him. For a second, he thinks Parrish is just going to turn around and leave, which would probably be the first thing he’s ever done in Ronan's presence that Ronan would approve of wholeheartedly.

He doesn’t do that. Of course he doesn’t. He’s a _professional._ Instead, he smiles gently, and it’s like there’s another person standing in front of Ronan: warm, inviting. He holds out a lovely, long-fingered hand to Ronan. “Could I have this dance, sweetheart?”

It’s like Ronan’s been transported to a different world. He knows that this is just Parrish acting, because Helen literally just now told them that’s what they should do, but it’s really fucking disarming. He knows that Parrish was good at his job, that he has to be considering how Helen and Gansey and every other person in the department fawn over him, but knowing that as a fact and being face to face with it are two entirely different things.

He can’t just freeze up, though: this is a challenge, no matter how gentle Parrish’s smile is. Instead, Ronan takes his hand, his face relaxing into a small smile, and stands as well, putting his hand on the small of Parrish’s back because he’ll be damned if he’s going to be the girl in whatever scenario Parrish has just thrown them into. “Of course, dearest,” he replies, sickeningly sweet, stepping closer so there’s only an inch or two between them, plastering a smile on his face that he hopes looks more loving than menacing. He’s pretty sure his heart is about to beat out of his fucking chest.

Parrish moves forward, too, looking up at him. Ronan has a few inches on him, a fact that he notices in the back of his brain, the tiny part of him that isn’t busy staring into those blue eyes, flicking down to full lips. He can smell him, too, from this distance, some sort of aftershave or cologne or something. This is like the worst game of gay chicken ever, except Ronan is actually gay and Adam Parrish is standing there looking like there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be and —

“Fine, good enough.”

Helen’s voice shatters through whatever is sitting in the scant space between the two of them; Parrish jumps away instantly, hands back at his side, like he’d been waiting to do that ever since he’d started. For approximately the twentieth time in five minutes, Ronan tries not to be offended by the fact that it’s evidently been so torturous for him that he needed to put a foot between them the second they were told to stop. _He’s just very good at lying. It’s his job._

Somehow that doesn’t make Ronan feel any better.

Eventually, he lowers himself back into his seat, trying not to show how shaken he’s been by this whole enterprise. In the background, Helen starts to talk details about the job: go to the auction, see if you can spot any familiar faces. Spend the night. Go to the charity gala the next day and dance and socialize for a while before heading to Greenmantle’s office, located one floor above. Find one single shred of evidence linking the Greenmantles to the criminal activities their informant Seondeok has repeatedly alleged. Get out unscathed.

Do it all while pretending to be happily fucking married.

There are more details than that, but Ronan mostly zones out, knowing both that it’ll all be in the briefs Helen slid across the table to them, and that wonderboy won’t let a single detail out of his sight.

Rather than pay attention to the guest list full of rich assholes, he sneaks looks at Parrish every now and then. He looks singularly focused, eyebrows furrowed like he’s cramming before a final exam or some shit.

Finally, Helen stands, nodding at the two of them, efficient as always. “Good. Well, you two have two days to read over your briefs and get everything prepared as best you can. I know this is last-minute and not under the best of circumstances, but I have full faith in both of your abilities.” She says it so confidently that Ronan almost believes her.

The three of them stand, and Helen leaves the room, leaving only Ronan, Parrish, and the fact that _that just happened_ sitting in the air between them.

Parrish turns towards him. Ronan’s throat closes.

“Did you even hear a word she was saying?”

Ronan rolls his eyes, half irritated at what a fucking idiot Parrish apparently thinks he is and half caught-out that it was so apparent that he wasn’t giving the briefing his full attention. “I did, and even if I didn’t I could just refer to the damn homework packet she’s given us.”

“It seemed to me like you were more interested in glaring at me out the corner of your eye.”

Caught red handed. Ronan can’t think of a better response than “I wasn’t glaring.” At least it's true. Staring, or perhaps ogling, would probably be more accurate.

Parrish snorts, clearly not buying it. “Sure. Look, I’m the one with experience with this. Just do what I say, read the brief, and don’t fuck up massively. You can go back to making snide comments when we get back from this alive.”

And with that he turns around and marches out of the meeting room before Ronan can get a last word in, which is both singularly frustrating and also kind of a relief, because at least Ronan doesn’t have to come up with something more piercing than that; he’s not sure how well his retort would compare. He just watches Parrish leave and tries not to think about the way his lips looked up-close and parted ever so slightly. He tries not to think about the next few days, which will probably be full of this nonsense. He tries not to think about the matching rings that will be waiting for the two of them tomorrow morning.

God. He is so _fucked_.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the warm response to chapter one!! <3 "Sharing a bed" tag is added bc I'm predictable. Thank you to Keelin, my beta and the most patient and beautiful angel, and my friend Natalie, for their ideas and motivation.

 

“So how did we get together?”

It’s all Ronan can do not to just wrench the steering wheel and send the two of them crashing straight into the medium, because he was not ready for that question. They’re about twenty minutes into the drive to DC, and it’s been blessedly quiet so far. Parrish has just been quietly sorting through his brief while he sits tucked into the passenger seat. Ronan is driving. Ronan had hoped that somehow if he just didn’t say anything they wouldn’t have to talk at all, ideally for the entire operation. He’d known that the semi-comfortable silence was unsustainable and he’d have to break down and talk about the mission eventually, but it was still disappointing to have the stillness of the road broken. He’d even refrained from turning on the radio thus far just to keep that tenuous silence going. 

Ronan hesitates, adjusts the rearview mirror uncomfortably to buy himself time. Parrish apparently takes this as standoffishness, because Ronan catches him in his periphery rolling his eyes. 

“Look, how about this: we met at work. We can try to keep it as close to the truth as possible. I thought you were cute, so I asked you out and the rest is history.”

Ronan takes a second to glance over at Parrish, his mind is fixated on the phrase _“as close to the truth as possible”_ immediately followed by “ _I thought you were cute.”_  Parrish’s flat, businesslike expression leaves little room for interpretation, or even any indication that he realizes how what he said could be taken. 

“You think I’m cute?” Ronan asks, just to be an ass.

Parrish looks surprised for a moment, and then huffs in annoyance. “I think you aren’t taking this seriously.”

“What could I do to convince you I'm serious? Frown some more?”

“I don't think that's possible.”

“What, me frowning more or you believing I'm talking this seriously?”

Parrish snorts. “The former. Look, having our stories straight could mean life or death if the wrong situation comes up.”

Ronan resists the urge to bait Parrish further, possibly with a "straight stories" joke. It would be so easy, but they really do need to deal with this. Plus, they’ve still got two hours in the car together and Adam probably knows of at least five ways to kill him with his tie alone.  “Fine, I’m fucking serious now. We got married last year, were dating for three before that. We like long walks on the beach and fucking antiquing.”

Parrish seems somewhat satisfied by that. “Good by me.” He shifts gears. “Now, the list of relevant persons. The Pinters...”  

“Greedy fucking real estate moguls with their fingers in some unsavory pies,” Ronan supplies.  

Parrish looks impressed, probably more that Ronan actually looked over the brief than at the mediocre pun. “So you did end up doing your homework.”

“Come on, Parrish, you've been in the business long enough to know better than to think I'm just a pretty face,” Ronan jokes, grinning wolfishly, and to his pleasant surprise Parrish looks amused rather than irritated for once in his life.

They go on like that for the remainder of the trip, making their way through important details of the brief: the time the security feeds will start looping, the items they should look out for at the auction, the people they should avoid at the gala. It's surprisingly not awful; Ronan's ability to retain information from the brief seems to satisfy Parrish, who apparently expected him to blow everything off. Ronan can't decide if he's more annoyed that Parrish thought he was some idiot jock or if he’s more happy to prove him wrong.

 

* * *

 

They arrive at their hotel half an hour earlier than planned due to Ronan’s driving, and when they sweep in, Ronan rolls his eyes at the ostentatious grandeur of it all. Parrish just looks businesslike, his eyes performing a subtle sweep of the premises, looking to see if anything is out of order from what the brief’s illustration provided.  

“Rich assholes,” Ronan says, his lip curled, and Parrish gives him a withering look.

“We’re some of these rich assholes, now, _Michael.”_

Ronan swears creatively at this. Michael is the name of his cover — Michael J. Goch, 25, son of an oil baron, complete and utter douchebag. He’s here with his loving husband Justin to buy some overpriced fucking antiques.

He hates his cover story, wears the idea of another persona like an ill-fitting suit. It's not like him; he's about fast cars and adrenaline, not making nice with rich assholes and pretending to care about old vases. He comforts himself with the fact that it could be worse, at least: Parrish's cover's name is _Justin._ If there's anything worse than a wealthy piece of shit named Michael Goch, it's a wealthy piece of shit named _Justin_ Goch.

Parrish checks in for them while Ronan tries not to visibly glower at anyone in the lobby even though he’d really like to, and they’re led up to their room. It’s as spacious and stylish as Ronan would expect from anything coordinated by Helen, but there’s a catch:

“There’s only one bed?”

Parrish looks at him like he’s an idiot. “Yes. We’re supposed to be a couple,” he replies, slow and dry.

“It’s not like they’re going to be coming into our fucking bedroom to check up on us!” 

Parrish rolls his eyes. “Look, if it’s going to be such a problem, you can sleep in the damn hot tub, I don’t care. It matters that we put up a convincing facade, though, and that includes the small details.” He blinks, and it’s like Ronan can see his mind shifting gears, already done with Ronan’s concern over the bed. “Speaking of which, our rings.”  

Ronan’s heart sinks a little over the mention of the fucking rings. He doesn’t know why; on the spectrum of concerning things about this plan, it should rank fairly low in comparison to pretending to date Parrish or making nice with a bunch of snobs. But seeing Parrish pull two plain silver bands out of their luggage has his chest feeling tight. “At least they didn’t get us some tacky shit,” he said, aiming to sound careless and calm.

He’s not sure how successful he is, but Parrish nods vaguely, dropping the ring into Ronan’s hand. “Well, Helen ordered them,” he shrugs, and it goes unsaid that Helen would never touch anything that is even in the zip code of tacky.  

Ronan slips it on despite the fact that he doesn't want to, knowing that Parrish will just harangue him over it if he doesn’t. The band fits him perfectly, of course, and Ronan feels strange with it there, a subtle weight that technically should mean nothing, but Ronan values marriage. This is supposed to be important, a contract, a once-in-a-lifetime thing. He thinks about his mother’s old nervous habit of twisting her wedding band when she was thinking or anxious.

Declan has his dad’s wedding band. He doesn’t even wear it, the fucker. He doesn’t like to think of himself as a sentimental person — especially not with Parrish slipping the ring on like it was natural, like he did it every day.

“How many different husbands and wives have you had over the years?” Ronan sneers, recognizing the fact that he’s deflecting, focusing on anything but his weird feelings about wearing a ring, but it’s not like he’s about to go deal with that in a healthy way.

Parrish shrugs. “I don’t know. Five? Not that many. Believe it or not, this isn’t that common for me, either.”

“Five’s still a lot of spouses. You tramp.”

 Parrish rolls his eyes, and Ronan can’t tell if it’s fondly irritated or actually annoyed. “I’m going to go over the brief once more. You should too.” Ronan does, for about ten minutes, before getting bored and switching to mentally giving most of the relevant people in the case mental nicknames and eventually turning on the TV, much to Parrish’s annoyance.

 

* * *

 

They head down at eight, having ordered room service while poring over last-minute plans. Tonight isn’t the big night; right now, they’re here to establish themselves and keep a low profile, and possibly collect some relevant information if possible. Tomorrow is when they’ll sneak into Greenmantle’s office.

The auction itself is exceedingly dull, an unending parade of fairly uninteresting, expensive things sometimes accompanied by backstories that range from dull as dirt to actually kind of cool. Ronan knows he needs to sit still and pretend to care about this shit, but it's hard to care about the sixth set of hundred thousand dollar fine china that comes through.  He ends up whispering his opinions on the items to Parrish and Parrish mostly just watches the auction intrepidly, but sometimes he'll crack a broad, handsome grin and the boredom of the night feels less excruciating.

They bid on a couple items, win an exorbitantly gaudy plate Helen cleared the funds for, saying she would give it to her mother for her birthday and that it would help the two of them to keep a low profile if they actually participate in the event. Parrish had looked pained as he’d raised the paddle. Apparently he thought it was pretty ugly, too.

Finally, the auction concluded after what felt like hours and hours. Ronan had tried to keep the people watching to an inconspicuous minimum so as not to draw attention while he was supposed to be singularly focused on all the tacky shit coming and going. Now, he leans back in his seat and took in the other guests, who were milling around. At some point, a table with refreshments had been set up behind them, so people were now sipping on flutes of champagne, eating tasteful platters of fancy cheese and olives, socializing before heading back to bed. Ronan took this as an opportunity to let out all the irritable complaints that had been bubbling up in his chest since they’d sat down.

“Which is that asshole? The one with the fucked up collar,” Ronan asks, elbowing Parrish in the ribs as he indicates someone halfway across the room.

Parrish sneaks a surreptitious glance at the man in question. His collar is indeed rumpled, and everyone else apparently has been either too polite or catty to let him know. “That's Jonah Milo. Works as a healthcare lobbyist, I'm pretty sure,” he answers, reeling off the reply like the answer to a vocabulary quiz, prompt and assured.

“Big Pharma shitdick,” Ronan interprets, quiet enough that only Parrish would hear. A small smile tugs at Parrish’s lips, his shoulders shaking subtly with repressed laughter, and Ronan finds himself grinning back sharply, feeling strangely accomplished for it.

He can’t bask in the feeling for long, though, because just as the two of them start to stand, they hear a voice from a few yards away: “Lynch!”

Instantly, Ronan stiffens, and Adam grasps his forearm so tightly that Ronan can’t instinctively turn around at the sound of his name. It’s not supposed to be his name here. “What the fuck,” Ronan hisses under his breath, looking at Parrish in a panic.

“I don’t know,” Parrish answered, suddenly businesslike and eerily calm once more. “Some guy is coming towards us.”

The voice behind Ronan came again: “Lynch!” And then a man appeared next to the two of them, and Ronan’s heart sank. It was Ryang Kim, a piece of shit from Aglionby.

He tried to keep his voice even and his expression smooth when he answered. “Sorry, do I know you?”

“You’re Lynch, from high school, right? It’s me! Ryang! Dude, I never would have guessed this would be your scene eight years out.” 

Ronan tries not to think about what Ryang did think would be his scene eight years out. “I think you must have mistaken me for someone else. My name’s Michael Goch,” he says with a perfectly polite smile, extending a hand to shake, his mind spinning trying to think up things that his high school self would have never done. He would never have been able to give a civil handshake to one of his peers.

Ryang introduces himself in what must be a social instinct, because he’s clearly still very confused, a step behind this conversation. “Uh, well. Uh. Hi there. Ryang Kim.”  

Ronan lands on something else his high school peers wouldn’t expect of him. He hadn’t been out.

When he takes his hand back from the shake, he draws in Parrish by the waist. “Great to meet you, Ryang. This is my husband, Justin.” Parrish gives a warm, if mildly confused smile.

Ryang is visibly fazed. “Your husband?” He looks down at Ronan’s hand, now sitting comfortably on Parrish’s waist, blinking at the wedding band he sees there, seeming to weigh it against the image he has in his head of Ronan in high school and coming up short. “Oh, uh, maybe I really do have the wrong guy. You didn’t go to Aglionby Academy? Class of 2013?”

“No,” Ronan replied, keeping his voice pleasant. It was a struggle; it was his knee-jerk reaction to seeing people from high school was a series of long, creative swears. “I went to the Hightower Institute for Precocious Young Men.”

Ryang continues to look flummoxed. “Oh,” he says again, looking disappointed and withering somewhat under their politely confused gazes. “Alright. Sorry about that. I could’ve sworn — but obviously you’re not him. Well, anyways. Good evening, gents.” And then he takes two steps back and flees, rejoining the group he’d come with.

Once he’s out of sight, Ronan nearly melts with his relief, his hand slipping from Parrish’s waist the second Ryang was out of sight. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he breathes, closing his eyes as he attempts to calm his still-racing heartbeat. 

Unexpectedly, when he turns to Parrish, the bastard is fucking giggling. Ronan scowls at him. “What?!” He demands, only barely managing to lower his voice to an appropriate level.

“The Hightower Institute for Precocious Young Men?” Parrish repeats incredulously, his voice hushed but uneven with poorly-concealed peals of laughter.

“Shut the fuck up,” Ronan hisses back, but a grin is starting to tug at his lips, too. Seeing Parrish laughing like this is kind of contagious. “I was trying to come up with somewhere some asshole named Michael Goch would go!”

“It sounds like something from a comic book!”

“Shut the _fuck up_!” Ronan replies, but he’s starting to laugh, too. “Can we get fucking out of here before the rest of my graduating class comes up to chat too?”

Parrish slowly composes himself, but an amused expression remains as he glances across the crowd, considering for a moment. “Yeah. I think we’ve done enough. That was a close call. He wasn’t on the relevant persons list on our dossier, though, I don’t think it’ll cause any problems.”

“That motherfucker has never been relevant a day in his life,” Ronan spits with a fanged grin. 

“Let’s keep it that way,” Parrish nods, threading their arms together and leading them back to the elevator.

 

* * *

 

The room is the same as it had been when they had left it, which is to say that there is still only one big-ass bed in the middle of it. Ronan had somehow forgotten. 

Parrish is casual as he shrugs out of his dress jacket and undoes his tie, seeming to settle back into the version of himself that he was when they got here: professional, not in love with Ronan. He sets his wedding ring on the bedside table. “I’m going to go touch base with Helen,” he informs Ronan, pulling out his phone. There’s some kind of program on it disguised as a banking app that sends encrypted messages back and forth to EXCELSIOR. Ronan has it installed on his phone as well, but has only used it a handful of times.  

Parrish settles down at the corner of the bed, intent on the phone in one hand, the other idly unbuttoning his shirt.  

Suddenly Ronan can’t handle this. “I’m gonna shower,” he says, ripping off his tie with a vengeance. He stalks into the bathroom and turns on the shower, and glares at his reflection as the water heats up.

He needs to get his shit together. Aside from the shit with Ryang, the night hadn’t gone badly. It had been mostly boring, but at times almost… pleasant. Parrish had a better sense of humor than Ronan had expected. But seeing him starting to undress, sitting in the bed the two of them were supposed to fucking share, had been just too much.

“Fuck,” he says to his reflection, with feeling.

He takes a long shower and definitely doesn’t jerk off, because that would be weird, and by the time he returns to the suite, Parrish has turned off the lights and is already conked the fuck out, having changed into a pair of sweatpants and a thin white T-shirt.

Fuck.

Ronan seriously fucking considers sleeping in the armchair, or even the God damn bathtub, but the armchair looks deeply uncomfortable to sleep in, and the tub is currently wet from the shower Ronan just took.

_Fuck._

After five minutes of deliberation, Ronan finally crawls into the opposite end of the bed, as far away from Parrish as possible, which is still closer than he’s comfortable being, and it takes him hours to finally succumb to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Hope you're all well, thank you so much for the feedback on the last chapter!! <3 Once again, a million thanks to Keelin my beautiful and perfect beta, Natalie my lovely friend, and all of you commenters for keeping me motivated and excited about this fic! <3 As you might see, we've only got two chapters left, one final proper chapter and an epilogue. Anyways, if it wasn't already apparent that I know nothing about what spies do aside from like two movies, it's probably really obvious now. Hope you guys are having as much fun with this as I am regardless! :)

Ronan wakes up warm, comfortable, and well-rested, especially considering how late he’d been up last night tossing and turning. He very nearly drifts back off to sleep when he realizes with a start that perhaps he’s too warm, that the comfortable weight around his middle is actually an arm wrapped around his waist. 

Before he can even process this, he’s out of the bed, more awake than if someone had dumped cold water on him. Parrish makes a vague noise of discontent and curls up a bit into the space Ronan recently vacated.

Fuck. _Fuck!_ Right. He had been sharing a fucking bed with Adam Fucking Parrish and up until five seconds ago Adam Fucking Parrish had been pressed up along his back, fucking _spooning_ him. Holy fuck.

Ronan can feel his blood rushing in his ears. He’s been involved in car crashes and gunfights, but he’s not sure he’s ever felt this panicked. Parrish is still stirring, apparently having been disturbed by Ronan violently springing out of bed.

“I’m taking a shower!” Ronan yelps as Parrish starts to push himself off his pillow, blinking in a sleepy, fuzzy way that has no business being on the sharp-edged Adam Parrish that Ronan is accustomed to.

It is far, far too much, and Ronan escapes to the shower, only barely catching Parrish’s confused, “Didn’t you shower last night?”

“I like to be fucking clean, unlike your filthy ass!” Ronan calls back from the shower, in a panic because Parrish is completely right. He’d showered less than ten hours ago and here he is, in the same position, looking at his own horrified expression in the mirror.

He debates even getting in the shower, but it would be weird if he shows up in the room obviously having just stood in the bathroom freaking out for ten minutes. So he just stands in the spray for a bit and contemplates the life choices that led up to this moment: waking up being spooned by his fake husband Adam Parrish the night after an antique convention.

His life used to be normal: shooting things, watching explosions. Now it’s completely fucked up and Ronan has lost control entirely.

Once he’s determined he can’t stay locked up in the shower for any longer without it getting weird, he reappears and prays to God Parrish doesn’t know what just happened.

Luckily, Parrish looks less disgustingly domestic and rumpled when Ronan peeks into the room. He’s made some of the shitty hotel coffee and is on his phone. He glances up from it to give Ronan an amused look. “Two showers?” 

“It’s a part of my routine,” Ronan answers mulishly, hoping that the redness in his face just seems like it’s from the flush of warm water. “Not my fault you have terrible hygiene and think that’s weird.” He’s being defensive, he knows it, but he can’t fucking stop.

Parrish just snorts. “Sure. I was going to shower when I woke up, but apparently you had a more desperate need for it.”

“I also had to shit.”

“Charming,” Parrish replies dryly, and returns to his phone, apparently dismissing the conversation.

Ronan could kiss him for letting the subject drop, but of course he doesn’t because that would be fucked up. Instead, he moves on, grabbing the room service menu from one of the tables. He’s not actually that hungry, but it’s something to do. “I’m ordering room service, I’m fucking hungry,” he informs Parrish, who makes a vague noise of approval.

“Sounds good. I’m going to shower. Get me a waffle.”

And then he’s setting down his phone, apparently done with whatever he was looking at, and heads into the bathroom. Ronan immediately sinks down to the bed, thanking God that he didn’t have to suffer through some kind of conversation about how he and Parrish had been cuddling.

He does order room service, and that morning and early afternoon is spent similarly to the first: the two of them looking over the brief, watching various television shows (they get stuck on HGTV for nearly an hour and bicker over which luxury condo the bougie couple on the show should buy) and generally keeping to themselves. They’re supposed to lay low right now, not attract attention to themselves, and that’s fine by Ronan, because he very much does not want to run into Ryang Kim again in for the rest of his life if he can help it.  

Once evening rolls around, though, they’re both a bit stir crazy and eager to get out of the room. They shrug into their dress shirts and jackets, and Parrish takes extra care to check that they have everything they need, a useful habit until the fourth time Parrish is asking him if he's remembered his phone.

Just before they leave, Parrish turns to him, taking in Ronan with a clinical up-and-down before pronouncing, “Your tie is a war crime.”

It’s such a Gansey-like thing to say that Ronan actually bursts into laughter.

“No, I’m serious. I’m fixing it.” And then he’s reaching up and Ronan is suddenly still as a statue as Parrish’s lovely, clever hands undo and then retie his tie, his brow furrowed in singular concentration. Ronan doesn’t risk breathing.

Once Parrish steps away, he nods once, apparently satisfied, and then they’re off.

 

* * *

 

The gala, once they get there, is suffocatingly dull. Ronan would much prefer some kind of firefight or high speed collision to everyone wearing their penguin suits and socializing about the things they bought with their ludicrous wealth and the politicians they have in their pockets and so forth. Ronan wants to spit on every one of them, but instead he keeps to himself, mostly just milling around arm in arm with his “husband” and spitting out whatever cutting comments come to mind, reveling in it whenever he manages to get a laugh out of Adam.

 At one point, Adam abandons him to get the two of them drinks, and Ronan finds himself gravitating towards a comfortably empty corner of the room, watching Adam’s back for a few minutes before realizing that was probably weird and instead switching to his old standard of judging all the tacky people milling about. He’s quite absorbed in the task when a voice interrupts a particularly cutting internal dialogue about a man wearing an honest-to-God top hat.

“Someone’s looking rather lost,” a comment came from beside him.

Ronan starts, spinning to face an older woman, glamorous and decked out jewelry that probably weighs about as much as she does. She’s looking at him with an affectionate smile. Ronan’s first instinct is to whip around and snarl something rude, but he catches himself just in time — he is Michael Goch, dickbag son of an oil baron who probably likes talking to gaudy old women. He forces a self-depreciating laugh, trying to channel Gansey. “It’s that obvious?”

She smiles benignly. “Just a bit, dear. I’d recognize the look of a man who’s been abandoned at a social event any day. God knows my husband’s worn it enough. That’s him in the far corner,” she says, jovially pointing out a man sipping a glass of champagne and looking around uncertainly. Ronan has to snort in amusement. It’s pretty much exactly what he’d been doing a minute before.

“So where has your wife gotten to?” She asks, mischievous amusement glittering in her eyes. Ronan shifts a bit, uncertain. He’s not used to coming out to strangers in casual conversation, much less weird rich old ladies who may or may not have some kind of republican shit-fit over it. 

“Uh, husband, actually,” he corrects, and apparently he’s picking up his mother’s old nervous habit of twisting his ring — it suddenly feels two sizes too small. He looks out into the crowd, more to look away from the way her eyes widen in surprise rather than in an effort to find Adam. “I’m not sure. He went to get us drinks and disappeared on me. This is more his scene than mine.”

When he looks back to her, she seems to have gotten over her surprise over him being gay. “Oh! Well. You do seem rather young for this crowd,” she smiles, and Ronan breathes out a slow breath, relief uncoiling in his chest at the minimal reaction to the husband thing. “I hope we’re not boring you.”

Ronan shrugs. “Nah. We did buy some ugly-ass plate. And the people watching’s not bad.” He realizes too late that he should probably be saying something more snotty, but he honestly doesn’t know if he has it in him to pretend to be enthused about the six digit piece of shit he and Adam are going to be bringing back to Helen.

The woman laughs in delight at his disinterest. “You know, I think we’ll be great friends. I’m Deborah Rutherford,” she says, extending a thin hand weighted by an array of expensive-looking rings.

Ronan takes it, smiling a bit. Talking shit in the corner with some old lady doesn’t seem like too bad of a way to spend the next few minutes. “Michael Goch,” he answers, trying not to choke on the fake name as he smiles and shakes her hand politely.

“Oh, someone’s coming towards us. Is that your husband?” She asks, indicating Adam coming up to the two of them with two flutes of champagne in his hands.

Ronan nods, relieved to see him even though it means the mission proper is going to start soon and Adam is just coming to retrieve him. “That’s him.”

“He’s a looker! Well done, you,” Deborah crows in a hushed voice, elbowing him with a roguish grin.

“He is,” he agrees in a low tone, his face heating up nonsensically. It's just a fact.

Adam finally reaches the two of them, sparing Ronan from having to talk any more about his sexy fictional husband. “Making friends, dear?” He asks with a wry undertone of disbelief, handing Ronan a flute of champagne and kissing him on the cheek. Ronan doesn’t know why he does that. He can feel his face heating up even more.

“Um, yes. Deborah, this is my husband Justin. Justin, Deborah.”

Deborah looks delighted as she offers an elegant hand to Adam, who shakes it with a winning smile. “Absolutely charmed. Your husband was just telling me about the ugly-ass plate you bought at the auction. Was it by chance the 19th century Japanese bronze piece?”

Adam bursts out laughing. “Yes, that’s the one. Michael has no taste whatsoever, you can just ignore him.”

Ronan scowls at him. “I have taste. Just not for old plates you can’t even eat off of.”

Deborah eats this up. “You two are precious. How did you meet?”

The question seems to be directed at him, but Ronan chokes. Suddenly the conversation they’d had about this exact topic yesterday flees Ronan’s mind wholesale. All the can remember is Adam saying _I thought you were cute,_ which is profoundly unhelpful right now.

Luckily, Adam seems to notice his hesitation. “Oh, now he’s shy,” he grins conspiratorially at Deborah, covering Ronan’s falter with grace.

“I am not,” grumbles Ronan, even though pretending to be shy is a better response than _Oh, we’re actually fucking spies and I just suck at it._

Adam ignores him anyways, launching into the story. “We didn’t have such a great start, you see. We worked at the same company and had the same friends but never quite saw eye to eye. Eventually we were assigned to a project together and I couldn’t ignore how handsome he was any more. Even his backtalk grows on you, if you can believe it,” he confides, grinning.

Deborah eats it up, tittering about what a lovely story it is, and Ronan doesn’t catch the specifics of what she says, because he’s busy being thrown by the fact that it’s more or less exactly their real history, minus the part about Adam finding him handsome and his backtalk charming. Another snippet from the conversation earlier comes back to him: _We can try to keep it as close to the truth as possible._

Ronan is pretty sure this mission is going to be the death of him.

Adam and Deborah say a few things that he misses out on, and when he tunes back in, Adam is in the process of extricating the two of them from the conversation. It must nearly be time for them to head up to Greenmantle’s office. “It was great meeting you, Deborah. Thank you so much for keeping him company, he’s really prone to just glaring at everyone from the corner when I leave him alone.” Ronan makes an obligatory noise of disagreement that's immediately swallowed up by the effusive sound of Deborah’s laughter.

“Not at all. It was lovely meeting the two of you. I think I must go rescue my husband, he’s looking really lost now,” she chortles. “I hope I’ll be seeing the two of you at more of these events in the future!” 

And then she’s sweeping off and Ronan is sagging with relief. He’s full of questions about Adam’s story, but Adam is already pulling himself together, looking up from his watch. “We have about two minutes to get up to the office. Security feeds upstairs are going to start looping in a minute, so we need to hurry.”

Ronan nods. Maybe it’s better to focus on the mission than whatever the fuck just happened there.

 

* * *

 

The trip to the office is unremarkable. The both of them had studied the blueprints included included in the brief to hell and back, and the timing should align with the Greenmantle security shift change. They have ten minutes to get in and out before the security passes the office.

Neither of them talk on the way there, leaving Ronan to marinate in his own thoughts, which were becoming increasingly hysterical and full of ridiculous possibilities like Adam actually being attracted to him and not just doing this for the job.

They reach the office without incident. It’s on the second floor, and without guards there it’s just a matter of Adam using some kind of cord to attach his phone to the punch pad next to the steel handle and letting some kind of program discern the eight-digit pattern. Parrish (Parrish, not Adam, Ronan is surprised to note that he’s somehow slipped into the habit of referring to him as Adam) is focused intently as he punches in the number, his fair brows furrowed as he works, the both of them wincing a little at the noisy electronic chime that accompanies the unlocking.

The both of them wait for some indication that someone heard it, and then breathe out in sync. “You stay outside and look out,” Parrish whispers, unnecessarily.

“I read the damn brief, Parrish. Get in there.” 

Parrish rolls his eyes, but gets in there, leaving Ronan to stand uselessly in the darkened hallway in front of the office. He can hear his heart thumping in his chest; this is not his scene, and he is remarkably fucking unprepared to operate in this capacity without a gun in hand. The faint sounds of Parrish rustling in the office reach his ears; he knows from the brief that he’s going straight for the safe; a minute later, another digital chime indicates that he’s breached the safe. Quickly thereafter, brief flashes of light appear sporadically as Parrish takes pictures of whatever he can find in the safe. The pictures will be uploaded directly to EXCELSIOR for Helen to review.

Ronan looks down. They have two minutes before security is scheduled to appear. The flashes continue.

He counts his heartbeats for another minute, and Parrish should have gotten out of there by now but he’s still taking photographs. Ronan peeks his head in. “Hurry up, we need to get the fuck out of here,” he hisses.

“Maybe if you didn’t spend so much time talking to old ladies we would already be done,” Parrish snipes back, still taking pictures. “I’m almost done. Thirty seconds.”

Ronan makes an irritated noise but returns to watching the hallway, and almost exactly thirty seconds later Parrish is reappearing and locking the door. “Got it. Now move!”

And the two of them are hustling down the hallway, but a different light suddenly appears around the corner — a fucking guard, right on time.

Fuck. _Fuck._

Ronan is frozen with shock, unsure of what to do. The stairwell to the lobby is past where the guard is, and he’s about to turn the corner. They’re fucked.

A soft curse comes from beside him, and just before the guard rounds the corner, Ronan is suddenly bodily pushed up against the nearest wall. For a second he’s about to make some kind of comment about how the two of them aren’t going to blend in well against the bare hallway wall, but then there are lips on his and his mind short circuits entirely.

Because Adam Parrish is suddenly kissing him.

He’s everywhere, his chest pressing against Ronan’s, his thigh between Ronan’s legs, hot and frantic and it’s so much that it’s all Ronan can do to kiss back, all thoughts of the guard and the mission and everything else leaving him, because _Adam Fucking Parrish is kissing him._

He only has the luxury of not thinking for a brief second, though, because a distant _“Hey!”_ comes from down the hallway, and Ronan is dumped right back into reality as Adam pulls away, looking disheveled and confused as he squints into the blinding brightness of the flashlight turned on the two of them.

“What are the two of you doing up here?” The guard demands uncertainly, even though it’s pretty damn obvious from Adam’s rumpled collar and kiss-red lips exactly what he was up to a moment ago.

It hits Ronan then that this was not some kind of last hurrah, but an attempt at saving their asses.  

“Is there a problem, _occifer?”_ Ronan asks, affecting a lazy, drunken, truculent slur, wrapping an arm around Adam’s waist more securely. If there’s anything his misspent youth taught him, it’s how to talk belligerently to a man of the law.

Ronan still can’t see the guy for the light shining into their eyes, but his voice still sounds somewhat unsure as he takes in Ronan’s apparently inebriated state, trying to piece together what’s happening. “You’re not supposed to be up here. Guests are restricted to the first floor only.” 

“Uh, I’m very sorry, sir,” Adam says, sounding tipsy but apologetic, pulling away from Ronan self consciously. Ronan follows after, playing the besotted drunk. It's not a difficult role for him. “I, uh, was trying to get him back to his room, but we got lost and… er, distracted,” he says, embarrassment leaking into his tone as he makes a terribly obvious attempt to straighten his collar.

The guard digests this for two painful seconds before lowering his flashlight. “Stairwell’s at the end of the hall there. You two get back to your rooms safe.” The both of them blink the light out of their faces, which probably helps the inebriated affectation they’re going for, and Ronan could faint for how relieved he is.

“Thanks, buddy,” Ronan slurs as Adam peels him from where he’d been leaning against the wall.

He stumbles drunkenly, right into Adam, who catches him unsteadily, and gives the guard another embarrassed, grateful smile. “Thank you. Sorry… uh, sorry about this.”

And then he’s pulling Ronan along towards the stairwell and Ronan goes with him, his limbs jellylike with both feigned drunkenness and relief, the feeling of Adam’s lips against his on a constant replay in his mind.

 

* * *

 

They get down the stairwell and to their hotel room without speaking. Ronan isn’t sure what to say, even though dozens of thoughts and questions swirl through his mind in a blur — _Why did you kiss me? Did you actually think that was going to work? Is that what you really think of how we met?_ — but he keeps them to himself, too rattled by what just happened, and Adam seems content to walk in silence, anyways. Ronan can’t stop silently freaking out about the fact that he now knows what it feels like to kiss Adam Parrish, to wake up with Adam Parrish curled against him. It’s absolutely more than he can deal with.

Once they reach their room, Ronan collapses on their bed, breathing out a shaky sigh. “Holy fucking shit,” he says to the ceiling, finally breaking the silence. It feels like a fitting way of summing up the night.

Adam snorts. “That’s one way of putting it.”

Ronan continues staring at the ceiling, hearing Adam shuffling around, and suddenly feels very awkward. Adam is taking off his jacket like he did yesterday, and suddenly Ronan is reminded of how they’d woken up this morning, Adam’s back against his chest, and he wants to punch the shit out of something, or at least go take another shower.

He hears the clatter of Adam’s fake wedding band on the bedside table, and Ronan stands up, crossing the room before he can feel the bed sink with Adam’s weight. “I’m gonna look over the shit you uploaded,” Ronan says, mostly for a lack of anything else to do. He might as well do something semi-productive.

“Not going to take your pre-shower shower?” Adam asks dryly, and Ronan snorts.

“No, that’s later. I have a routine, I fucking told you,” he answers, grinning a little, glad that the tension has broken somewhat and that apparently they aren’t going to talk about it.

Adam laughs. “Far be it from me to mess with your _routine._ I’m going to get in touch with home base and make sure the documents are all there. You should be able to access them through the program,” he says, gesturing vaguely.

Ronan settles into the chair by the mini bar (uncomfortable as shit, as expected, but he still weighs how bad it would be to sleep there rather than risking the bed again) and pulls up the program on a tablet computer. After accessing the EXCELSIOR database, he pulls up the files and begins scanning over them.

It’s mostly boring stuff, and Ronan’s not really sure what he’s looking for; that’s for some boring analyst back at HQ with nothing better to do. But he lets himself read through a couple of pages of business ledgers with relative disinterest. Most of the names and numbers mean little to him, though he gets the idea that they’re probably somewhat important considering the amount of accusations Greenmantle has had piling up against him for years.  

Ronan isn’t actually expecting to get anything interesting out of them; it’s more of a way to occupy himself. The best he hopes to find is the name of some crooked local politician or something, but after a few minutes of scanning, he reads a familiar name.

His heart stops.

“Adam,” he says, forcing his voice steady. “Why is my fucking father’s name on this list?”

And that’s when the window shatters and the roar of gunshots fills the air.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooooo it's been a minute! Or 8 months! Sorry about that! In my defense this chapter was REALLY hard to write and also I graduated, got a job, and got an apartment in that time span so I have been kind of busy. But I have a new chapter! Thank you to all the darling commenters, kudos-ers, and especially my sweet sweet Keelin for being my beta and friend and cheerleader!!! Without all y'all I definitely wouldn't have picked this back up.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy! Sorry it's kind of a dark one! Content warning for violence and gunfights!

Ronan claws his way back to consciousness slowly and with effort. The first thing that registers is that he’s not alone, wherever he is, and that he’s wearing a blindfold and a gag. He can hear two people arguing, but he's having difficulty focusing on exactly what’s going on; there’s a dull, throbbing pain in the back of his head that seems to be leaching his ability to interpret his situation.

Still, he catches a bit of the conversation: “...Well, I’m not really in the mood for this tonight, darling,” a man is saying.

“And you think I am? He killed my favorite goon,” a woman replies airily. 

“Don’t be juvenile. They’re our henchmen, not our goons.”

“Absolutely not. Look, really, Reginald was my favorite goon. He was handsome, and his name was  _ Reginald. _ He was  _ perfect _ .”

“Should I be jealous? My name could be Reginald. My parents had actually been considering it.” The man sounds mildly hurt. Ronan’s ears were ringing and he was having difficulty following the implications of this conversation, but even in his addled state, he was already certain that both speakers were utterly insufferable.

“Don’t be tacky, dear. I read an article last week about how insecurity can lead to premature wrinkles,” the woman was admonishing. “Honestly, I don’t know why I married you. Getting some thug to punch the truth out of him instead of doing it yourself is tasteless.” 

“Why else do we have henchmen, darling?”

“We have henchmen so they can hench while we do the fun parts,” the female voice replies placidly. Ronan is quite sure he recognizes that cadence, that under most other circumstances he would be able to remember her name, but he is failing to grasp at it, particularly when the two of them seem to be discussing methods of torturing him.

As he comes to that conclusion, the rest of his memory swam back to him in waves: the mission, the kiss, the shattering of glass, the firefight. He must have gotten knocked out sometime during the fight, and he has no idea what had become of Adam.

His chest contracts with dread at the thought, but he doesn’t have long to consider it, because the conversation seems to turn to him. “Oh, I think he’s awake,” the male voice says, sounding a bit dubious about it, and it is then that Ronan connects the voice to the face he’d seen on their mission brief — that broad, moneyed grin he’d caught from across the room back at the party. It was Colin Greenmantle.

No sooner has he come to this conclusion than the blindfold is pulled off of him and he is staring at the perfectly symmetrical face of none other than Piper Greenmantle. “Good evening, handsome,” she greets him, pleasantly, like she hadn’t just been discussing having one of her lackeys beating the shit out of him. “Oh, Colin, darling, look at his pupils. I think he’s concussed,” she observes, with the dispassionate interest one might have when discussing a museum piece, or perhaps a prime cut. 

“Sure, fine. Look, do you really want to do this? I don’t think I want to watch. You know how blood turns my stomach, and I really would like to hold on to the pâté from this evening…” 

“Yeah, I want to do it for realsies. You don’t have to watch, but you know what they say about if you want something done right.” She produces a leather pouch from her purse and unzips it to reveal an assortment of tools: several long, sharp knives; a pair of pliers; a scalpel; a hammer. Each one has a matching coral pink handle. 

Ronan can’t believe he’s about to get cut open by a woman using the phrase  _ for realsies. _ He makes a noise against the gag, mostly to try to prove that he’s not a completely passive entity in the situation. 

“You hush,” she castigates him sternly, “I have a lot on my plate right now and I don’t need this from you too.” 

“I’m leaving,” Colin announces, eyeing Piper’s tools with some trepidation. 

“Bye,” Piper replies without looking up from what she’s doing. Greenmantle, visibly displeased with this answer, does not leave but rather lurks in the back of the room, peering over Piper’s shoulder from a distance of about fifteen feet.

Ronan tries to assess the situation, but his thoughts can’t seem to coalesce into a singular narrative; they fly apart when he tries to form some kind of plan of escape, some kind of lie that will get him out of this, and soon enough all he can focus on is the sight of the pliers in her hands as she holds them up to her face. 

“Now,” she says, sounding like she’s having a good time, “I’m going to take off this gag. If you lie to me or spit on me or something else tacky like that, I swear I will make the rest of your short life singularly unpleasant.” She says it in the kind of removed, bored way that it sounds like she’s said this before, perhaps to her manicurist or a cashier at some kind of gourmet pet food store. Ronan is inclined to believe her.

He nods, and the gag falls away. His first instinct, of course, is to spit at her, and he might have done it if there weren’t things that he needed to know. “Okay, great. So, who are you working for?” She asks, conversational about it, and Ronan rolls his eyes. It’s actually kind of painful, like tugging at a raw nerve somewhere behind his ears, but it’s worth it to convey his disdain for the question. Like he’s just going to give shit away that easily.

He’s not gagged any more, but he keeps his mouth shut tight, and she groans. “God, don’t be like this,” she complains. “Don’t make me do the whole threatening thing. You should be smart enough to know the torture spiel, so like, just skip to the part where you tell me stuff.”

Ronan continues to stare at her dully. He has never been tortured before, but does indeed know the torture spiel — EXCELSIOR provided training on the topic, and besides that Ronan is fucking stubborn, never mind that everyone he loves is tied to their agency, anyways. 

She interprets his silence correctly, and smiles, sickly-sweet. “Well, how about I share something first, then? Would that make you more amenable?” She pauses, not seeming to mind Ronan’s non-reaction, clearly reeling herself up for something stupid and dramatic that she thinks is going to hit home:

“We know who your daddy was.” 

Out of every possible thing she could have said, she managed to pluck out the one that could actually blindside Ronan completely; he sucks in a sharp, shocked breath. Her grin becomes even more glittering and broad, creasing the makeup around her eyes. 

“That got your attention, huh? Of course it did. How could we not recognize Niall Lynch’s son? You look just like him. What a waste of some great cheekbones, right? I bet you don’t even know how long it takes me to contour in the morning.”

“How did you know my dad?” His voice comes out strangled.

“Finally playing, huh? That's not how this game works, though,” she pouted. “Tell me who you work for and I'll tell you who spilled his head on your driveway. I know that kind of stain doesn't come out easy.”  

Ronan is reeling; even in his unconcussed state, he would probably have trouble processing this, and now it just feels like everything is happening at once. Piper is smiling and the pink wrench she’s picked up is waving around a little in the air. She’s talking again, but Ronan can’t make sense of the words, too overwhelmed by this revelation: Colin and Piper Greenmantle knew his father. They know how he died, who killed him.

After a few moments, her expression slips into irritation, presumably because he’s not responding to whatever she’s saying.

Several things happen in short succession, then: the door to the room is kicked in with a bang; a man with a gun rushes in; one shot is fired and Colin Greenmantle crumples to the ground clutching his gut; Piper takes hold of a long knife.

Ronan’s mind is working too slowly for him to process this all for several seconds, so he focuses on one detail at a time.

Firstly: the person who kicked in the door is Adam. He looks — terrible, actually. As terrible as Adam Parrish is capable of looking, anyways; the right side of his face is just starting to bloom with a vivid bruise, and there’s so much blood on his white dress shirt and slacks that Ronan nearly has a heart attack until it dawns on him that it’s not Adam’s blood. 

Secondly: Colin Greenmantle has been shot, and is laying on the ground making noises like a wounded animal.

Thirdly: Piper is next to him, and she is saying something. Ronan misses it, but even with his mind working like it’s been submerged in pudding, he fixates on Adam instantly.  “Don’t move an inch,” he’s instructing Piper, who is almost eerie in her stillness, doll-like and cold behind the eyes. She’s clearly calculating what to do as Adam advances slow and careful. 

She’s not quite close enough to Ronan to make a stab for him without Adam shooting her first, which Ronan knows only because he doesn’t have a knife sticking out of his chest right now. That is the only deduction he seems capable of making at the moment; beyond that, he has no concept of how this could play out, only rooted here to where he’s lashed to the chair.

And just as suddenly and violently as it had started, that crystalline, suspended moment fractures and busts. Piper turns and takes two bounding steps for the glass window beside them and leaps, knife-first. 

The glass shatters instantly, inundating Ronan’s already overwhelmed senses as though she’d wedged the knife between his eyes. 

The next thing he knows Adam is kneeling next to him, using one of Piper’s pink-handled knives to cut his bonds. His eyes are so very blue.

“Hi,” Ronan says, too dumbfounded to think of anything else. Adam is here. Piper knew his father.

Adam’s gaze flicks up to him, caught between amused and concerned. “Hey,” he replies, and then frowns. “You have a concussion,” he deduces, probably from the mismatched pupils that Piper had pointed out earlier.

He’s right, as usual, but it chafes anyways. “I’m fucking fine,” Ronan replies, pretending the pounding headache he’s had since he awoke is nothing. Finally, Adam manages to free his arms and Ronan’s hands are suddenly filled with the unpleasant pricking sensation of blood rushing back into depleted limbs. 

Adam makes his way to Greenmantle, kneels next to him to take his pulse. "He's dead," he announces. “And she somehow got away. I couldn’t see a body out the window.” He works his jaw, vexation clear in his expression and stiff stance. “The plan’s obviously shot to hell. We were supposed to check in with Helen hours ago so there may be reinforcements headed our way, but I’m not sure when they’ll get here. We need to get out.”

Ronan thinks, blearily, that Adam is rather magnificent, standing there covered in other people’s blood, inveterately competent. It takes him a second to formulate a proper response. “Yeah,” he says, belated. He can blame it on the concussion, or the sudden revalation about his father. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

So they make their way down the hallway Adam came in through. It’s littered with bullet holes and four men out cold, one of whom Ronan relieves a gun from. “You know this shit isn’t like the movies,” Ronan says after checking for a pulse, just saying whatever shit comes to mind at this point, “these guys probably have a fuckload of brain damage and are gonna die in like a week. You’re not fucking Batman.”

Adam looks at him, blandly amused. “Yeah,” he says. “I know. I’m a fucking spy.”

“As long as you know,” Ronan replies, internally wishing he had a fucking filter right about now.

“You must be more concussed than I’d previously thought,” Adam says, and Ronan can’t tell if he’s saying it jokingly or really means it. “Let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

  
The nearest exit is through the lobby, so they begin making their way in that direction as quietly and quickly as possible, which is not very quietly or quickly given the fact that Ronan’s legs seem to have lost interest in cooperating with the rest of him and the resulting waves of nausea that come whenever he lurches too quickly in any direction. Adam seems to be favoring one leg over the other, even if he doesn’t say anything of it.

In addition to this, Adam seems to become more agitated every minute that passes with them unmolested. By the time they’ve reached the basement his head is on a constant swivel, and this is possibly the only thing that keeps them from being shot out immediately.

The sound of gunfire fills the air the minute Adam steps forward to clear the room. The both of them immediately leap for cover on pure instinct; Adam upends a nearby table and Ronan lunges for cover behind it, feeling something slam into him on the way there. He doesn’t pay it any mind, immediately peering around from the edge of the table to return fire. He hears a scream, a clatter; either he or Adam hit someone. Probably Adam; Ronan’s head is pounding unbearably, and he’s so nauseous he has to retreat back behind the table. 

When he does, he curls into himself, looks down to find red pooling in his stomach. He’s been shot, probably when he dove behind the table. The pain hits him all of a sudden, then, and the world around him is a blinding cyclone of confusion and pain and ear-splitting noise. The table shielding them occasionally shudders with the impact of bullets. 

He considers telling Adam, but it wouldn’t do anything but stress him further. Instead, Ronan presses a hand as firmly to his gut as he can, tries to regulate his breathing, tries to do anything to keep himself from going into shock. He takes stock. Adam is only trading fire with one person now, though Ronan can also make out the shrill shape of Piper’s voice, directing her henchman. 

Adam ducks back, cursing more than Ronan has ever heard him. “I’m out of bullets,” he says, kicking the gun away. “Give me yours.” He’s laser-focused, not seeming to notice Ronan clutching at his stomach. Ronan numbly does so, watches Adam with a dumb, confused fascination as Adam goes back to returning fire, judicious now about his shots. 

The table they’re ducking behind is splintering now. There is a bullet lodged in Ronan’s gut. This is probably how he will die. 

Ronan is strangely okay with it. Well — not okay. He would prefer not to die. It’s a strange realization; he’d joined EXCELSIOR waiting for this moment, where he goes out riddled in bullet holes, a hero. But now, he wants to live. He wants Adam to live.

One of Adam’s shots connects, and then another, and then there’s the unmistakable sound of a body crumpling. 

There’s a moment of silence, and then Piper’s voice, manic. “You absolute barbarians!” 

Her tone is so completely wild that it startles the both of them silent for a moment. Adam peers out at her, and Ronan is so stunned that he twists to do the same, ignoring the lancing pain the movement causes. 

His vision is starting to get fuzzy around the edges, but the sight of her is striking: she’s standing there in the same sleek white suit she’d been wearing when Ronan came to earlier in the evening, but now it’s bloodstained and dirty. More arresting, though, is the expression she’s wearing. She looks utterly feral, unhinged. There is a bruise on her cheek, and she’s walking towards them with a bad limp. Her lipstick is still perfectly applied, though, and she has a handgun in one shaking hand, and she fires off a couple shots that go completely wide, not even hitting the table. 

Adam returns fire immediately, rattling off one shot that misses, lines up a second. His breathing is slow and measured. Ronan’s is staccato-quick, faster than it should be. He can feel his heartbeat inside his skull somehow, equally frantic, filling his ears. 

Even with all his senses overwhelmed, the next sound is crystal clear: the click of an empty chamber resounds throughout the room. 

This is where Ronan loses the plot completely, awareness coming mostly in waves of sound: the wild crack of Piper’s laughter, another gunshot, this one making contact with the table they’re behind, the clack of heels as she advances further, and then:

“ _Freeze_.” 

It’s a new voice, one that doesn’t belong in this situation. Ronan makes a token attempt to match it to where it belongs, but the connection evades him completely. 

There’s the unmistakable sound of a gun cocking, a few more footsteps, and then the same voice from a moment ago: “Deborah Rutherford, FBI. Put down the gun.”

It takes longer than it should for Ronan to connect that name to the face his mind has been searching for since she started talking. The old woman from last night.

By the time Ronan had made that connection, he’d already missed a snatch of conversation, which was probably for the best, because when he tuned in, there was a confusing layer of voices and sounds: “Get medical attention for your partner—” the jangle of handcuffs, “—you tacky bitch—” “He’s only concussed, I’m sure it’ll—” a choked noise of alarm, and then Adam comes back into Ronan’s field of vision.

He’s floating above Ronan somehow — no, he’s kneeling. Ronan is on the ground. He can’t feel his fingers. Adam’s face is pale, concerned. “Ronan, what the fuck,” he breathes, and that’s the last thing Ronan remembers before passing out. 

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know if you liked it or have thoughts/constructive criticism! :^)


End file.
